Night Visitor
by mnemosyne23
Summary: Darien pays a visit to the Keeper, post-"The Other Invisible Man." That pesky pineal gland is acting up again! ClaireDarien


**TITLE:** Night Visitor  
**AUTHOR: **Mnemosyne 

**Disclaimer:** Not mine! The characters and events of "The Invisible Man" belong to the Sci-Fi Channel, even though the idiots don't deserve it, since they cancelled it and replaced it with… what exactly?  
**SUMMARY:** Darien pays a visit to the Keeper, post-"The Other Invisible Man." That pesky pineal gland is acting up again! ClaireDarien  
RATING: R  
NOTES:  
I wrote this story years ago, when "I-Man" was still on the air (God rest its beautiful, imaginative, creative, addictive soul). I make reference to the Keeper's bedroom in this story. I am assuming that the room connected to the upstairs bathroom featured in "Impetus" is her bedroom. That is by no means a bona fide fact. 

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_"So they gave you one, too, huh? A Keeper?... See, you start out hating her, what she's doing to you. But after a while, it's kind of like growing up together. Pretty soon you realize that all you really want to do is touch her..." _

-Charles Fogarty  
"Catevari", Season one 

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The night was dark, but darkness meant nothing to an invisible man. There was no shadow to obscure, no bootblack-smudged face to hide away in a back alley. There was only the night, and the moon, and invisible footsteps on the pavement. 

He'd been to her house once before, clothed similarly in his quicksilver garb. The atmosphere of the place seemed different at night-- more solitary than in the daylight. He knew she must be lonely, dog or no dog. Lonely like him. 

It was a quick and easy business to pick her lock and slip through the door. He made a mental note to tell her to update her security system, then quickly scribbled the thought away. She might get something too advanced-- something he couldn't disable. 

Pavlov lay on a luxurious doggie bed near the door, and he perked up his head as the cloaked figure slipped into the room and closed the door. The small dog didn't seem to know how to react. Part of him wanted to bark and raise a ruckus at this intrusion, but the other half hesitated. He could smell an intruder, but he saw nothing. His shaggy body quivered as his instincts battled each other. 

The dog let out a small yip as an unseen hand stroked its coat, and a soft, familiar voice soothed his rattled nerves. This voice meant Friend. Content that his mistress was in no danger, he lay back again on his elegant cushions, and let the invisible man pass by. 

The interior of the house was dark, save for one light burning in the upstairs bedroom. The man could make out the sound of water running as he climbed the stairs, and then, softer, the sound of a woman humming. Nothing had changed in the master bedroom since the last time he had visited her here-- the white sofa, the full length mirror. In the far corner, nearest the bathroom, stood a queen-sized, four-poster bed, with comforter and sheets already turned down in preparation for their nightly ritual. 

He just stood there, staring at that bed, for well over a minute. Now that he was here, in her home, his purpose seemed to be spiralling away from his grasp. It had all been so clear earlier, when he'd left his apartment as though on the spur of the moment. Then his footsteps had led him here, leaving his mind free to concentrate on where he was going, and why. Now there was nowhere else to go, and he was lost. 

In the bathroom, the shower shut off, leaving the house in silence, save for the woman's soft voice as she continued to sing. He pulled his eyes away from the bed and focused on the locked bathroom door. Briefly, he wondered why she locked it at night, yet left it wide open during the day. Perhaps it felt safer that way. 

He knew he had time. He'd had much experience with women, and if there was one thing he knew, they always took a lifetime to get ready for bed. She wouldn't be out of that bathroom for at least twenty minutes. 

Without taking his eyes from the door, he reached up one hand to hit the light switch, while the other shrugged off his jacket. The room went dark, and he shed his quicksilver skin. 

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_That's odd,_ Claire thought, as she opened the bathroom door and stepped into her bedroom, _I'm certain I left the light on in here._ She shrugged. _The bulb must have blown._

She crossed the room to her dresser near the mirror, wrestling with the belt to her blue satin nightrobe, which just did not want to tie. There was no real need for light, beyond the moonlight that streamed through her bedroom window. It was a soothing silvery glow, and it would be more than enough for her to brush her hair. 

Abandoning the fight with her belt, Claire picked up her fine silver hairbrush and began to pull the bristles through her long, blonde hair, still frizzy from the hair dryer. Her mind wandered as she counted the strokes. 

"...ten...eleven..." 

The brush had been her grandmother's, and when she'd passed away, Claire had claimed it as her own. No one had argued-- no one really understood what she wanted it for, beyond its aesthetic properties. It was just an old hairbrush. 

"...twenty-two...twenty-three..." 

She'd never explained to them the sentimental value it held for her. Every summer, Claire would spend a month at her grandmother's home in the North Country. The animals and the countryside enthralled her as a child, giving her her first real interest in science. What made things grow? How come the baby calves learned to walk so soon, when it had taken her months and months? 

"...thirty-nine...forty..." 

At night, after her evening bath, Claire would sit on the floor by the side of her grandmother's bed, and the elderly woman would run the thick, soft bristles of her silver brush through her granddaughter's hair. It felt comforting to feel her grandmother's frail-looking hands smoothing out the snarls and knots that a day playing in the briar patches could create. 

"Fifty-six...fifty seven..." 

They would talk on those nights. Her grandmother would tell her what pretty hair she had, and how it would fetch her a wonderful young man someday. In her youth, Claire had turned up her nose at the thought of BOYS, but as the years went by, the thought became less and less repugnant. It seemed almost tangible. 

"...seventy...seventy-one..." 

Then her grandmother had died, and Claire had been grief-stricken. She threw herself into her studies, and all those young girl fantasies of the Prince Charming on the snow white steed disappeared, replaced by organic chemistry and bioengineering. 

"...eighty-two...eighty-three..." 

But this brush brought it all back. Every memory of her girlhood summers in the north of England-- her grandmother's bony knuckles; the smell of baking bread; and gilded knights on magnificent chargers who would come to whisk her away to a life of romance, like Rapunzel. A time when life hadn't been about politics and coercion and life or death struggles. When it had all been so much simpler, and the green grass had stretched for miles. 

She wondered if she would ever feel like that again. 

"...ninety-eight...ninety-nine..." 

"You have beautiful hair," came a phantom voice from the bed behind her. 

She spun around, and the hairbrush clattered to the floor, forgotten. 

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He was sitting up in her bed, cocky as a goose that had survived through Christmas Eve. Hands laced loosely across his bare stomach, he seemed to glow in the moonlight. He wore a pair of black boxers and a broad white smile, and that was all. 

"Darien?" Claire yelped in surprise. Then, as the shock wore off, "Darien! What are you doing here?" She was suddenly very aware of the fact that her bathrobe was only loosely tied, and quickly pulled it tight. 

"Waiting for you," he answered, his eyes locked with hers. It was an eerie feeling, as though he weren't seeing her, but THROUGH her. Claire shuddered as she realized what it must be like to be invisible. 

"Why are you waiting for me?" she asked cautiously, pulling her eyes away from his to scan the room. If she hadn't been so preoccupied earlier, she would have noticed the clothes folded neatly on the sofa; the shimmery dusting of quicksilver near the door. She cursed her own distraction. 

"Because I wanted to," Darien replied, and when she looked back, it was as though his eyes hadn't moved. They met hers instantly, and held her motionless. 

Something was wrong-- that much was apparent. No sarcastic remarks, no flippant attitude; that dreamy tone to his voice. Almost as if he were asl- 

Her eyes widened as understanding blossomed in her mind. "Of course," she murmured. "That must be it." 

"What must be what?" Darien asked, and Claire jumped a little at his voice. 

Recovering quickly, Claire straightened her back and held his gaze. "That must be what's wrong with you." 

"There's nothing wrong with me." 

"Darien, I believe your pineal gland is overacting again. That's why you came here. It was an irresistible impulse, exacerbated by your heightened melatonin levels." 

"I think you're wrong." 

"I'm the doctor here. Why don't we let me determine the diagnosis?" 

"I say your diagnosis is wrong." 

"Oh? Really? Then what is YOUR diagnosis for why you left your apartment in the middle of the night, broke into my house, and are now lying half-naked on mybed?" 

"I'm lonely." 

It was uttered so blandly, the Keeper could easily have blipped over it in a normal conversation. As it was, she blinked several times before what he'd said sank in. "You're lonely?" she clarified, unsure what else to say. 

Darien shrugged. "Thieves hang with other thieves. Government experiments don't hang with thieves. And government experiments don't get much of a social life." 

He said it in dead monotone, as though he were explaining a simple arithmetic problem. It suddenly struck Claire that he must have been thinking about this quite a bit to be so detached. Some small piece of her twinged in sympathy, but she ignored it. 

"You shouldn't be lonely, Darien," Claire said softly, taking an unconcious step forward. "Think about it. You have Hobbes." 

Darien snorted, and now he looked away. It felt like a physical separation when his gaze left her's, and she had to shake away the disorientation. "Hobbes would take me out in no time flat if he thought it would best fulfill his 'duty.'" 

"That's not true." 

"Yes it is, and you know it." 

"Well, there's the Official. Eberts." 

Darien laughed openly at those names, and Claire decided to navigate around them. 

"You have me," she said softly. 

He looked back, and she could feel his brown eyes smoldering even across the room. "I know," he murmured. "That's why I'm here." 

Claire swallowed. "Why exactly ARE you here, Darien?" she asked carefully. 

He moved then; so swiftly, it made the Keeper take a surprised step back. He was perched on the foot of the bed now, hanging on to one of the posts, the tendons in his arms standing out in sharp relief. "Because I understand you, Claire," he said, and it still felt odd to her when he used her real name. So few people did. 

"What do you mean, you understand me?" 

Darien smiled, and relaxed a bit. "You're lonely, too," he stated simply. "I know you are. I can see the signs." 

Claire felt the spell of his eyes momentarily falter as her pride took hold. "I live a very happy life, thank you very much," she stated. 

Darien shook his head, and there was a shadow of his usually cocky grin in that smile. "No you don't, Claire," he told her. "You play at it, but you're not happy." He flung out one hand to encompass the house. "You live in this big house, just you and the dog. You're a practical woman-- no way you'd ever take more than you needed." 

Claire swallowed. She was beginning to get nervous, but why she couldn't tell. Maybe because it felt like he was touching a nerve she hadn't even known existed. "I like my space," she defended herself. "And Pavlov needs somewhere to run." 

Darien shook his head again. "No," he said. "That's not it." 

"Then by all means, what is IT?" 

"You're waiting for someone." 

The Keeper raised an eyebrow. "Waiting for someone? And who, may I ask, am I waiting for?" 

Darien shrugged, as though it were obvious. "Someone to eat dinners with," he said. "Someone to walk Pavlov while you boil up concoctions in your secret laboratory." He raised an eyebrow and smoothed a hand over the pristine white sheet beneath him. "Someone to share this big, soft bed with." 

Claire rolled her eyes, forcing herself from her reverie. "And I suppose that person is you, is it?" 

He shrugged. "It could be. How can you know...until you've tried?" 

To her great chagrin, Claire found herself absently nodding in agreement. 

Before she could stop herself, Darien had launched himself off the bed and was standing in front of her, a breath away. She could feel the heat emanating from his bare chest, and she swallowed hard, once again aware of her state of undress. She tightened the grip on her robe. 

"We're lonely, Claire," he murmured, gazing down into her eyes. His were dark brown-- very dark. Bottomless pools in which to fall and drown. "The freak and the geek." 

Darien's hand latched onto the one of hers that wasn't holding her robe closed, and he studied the fine lines on her palm. "But, you see, that's the beauty of this whole thing, Keep." His eyes met hers again. "When two lonely people get together, they....aren't lonely anymore." He twined their fingers together and brought their clasped hands to his heart. Claire could feel it pounding. 

She wasn't breathing. Her lungs burned for air, but all the Keeper could do was stare at their intertwined hands where they rested just above his heart. The hand holding her robe closed loosened, but did not fall away. She could feel the thrum of his heartbeat, and between their palms, the frantic, crazed throb of their two pulses mingling. 

"Darien," she whispered, "we can't do...what you want to do." 

He didn't look hurt, simply unconvinced. "Why not?" 

She smiled then, and managed to tear her eyes away from their hands. "Because," she stated simply, "it wouldn't be seemly. The doctor/patient relationship issues ALONE are enough to keep this...kind of thing from happening." 

It sounded like a hollow argument, and he wasn't buying it. "I used to be a theif, doc," he murmured. "You think I care about appearances?" 

"To be honest," she told him, "yes, I do." Her smile was sympathetic, and, strangely enough, a little sad. "And even if you didn't," she continued, "I do. If the Official found out-" 

"He wouldn't have to." 

"You'd be surprised what that man can learn." 

"You'd be surprised what I can keep a secret." 

"Darien, you're not being sensible." Claire slipped her hand from his grasp, ignoring the twinge of regret that accompanied the movement, and turned away. "I think it would be best for both of us if you simply got dressed and left. I promise to never mention this incident again." She moved away from him, trying to put as much distance as she could between them, before her wall of control-- which was shaky at best-- collapsed completely. 

She could see his reflection in her full length mirror-- he wasn't moving. He was just watching her, as though the very movement of her body was something wonderful and inspiring to him. Stooping, she picked up her fallen hairbrush and set it back on her dresser, and stood staring down at it. 

"You haven't left yet, have you?" she finally asked. 

"No." 

"Darien," she said, exasperated, leaning against her dresser and letting her hair cascade over her shoulder, "you're being obstinate." 

Suddenly, Claire felt his hand trace lightly up her spine, and she stiffened. She hadn't heard him approach. Cat burglar footsteps. 

"Look at me, Claire," Darien murmured, very close to her ear, his breath dancing across her cheek and making her close her eyes with his proximity. 

She shook her head. "No," she whispered shakily. 

His hand reached over her shoulder to lightly pull her hair back, away from her face, and he moved closer. "Why not?" 

His lean torso was pressed along her back, his heat burning through her thin satin robe. "Because I...I... I don't know," she answered, eyes still closed, as her thoughts tumbled over one another in confusion. Nothing made sense-- her conscience combatted her passion and her id fought her ego, until the world was spinning around her like a crazed tilt-a-whirl. 

"I've seen you look at me," he said softly, so that his lips gently brushed her cheek. One hand slipped around her waist, curling lightly against her satin-covered stomach. "When you thought I wasn't paying attention." 

"Of course I look at you," Claire argued, but her voice was feeble and sounded foreign in her ears. "I'm your Keeper." 

She could almost see the grin on his face when he answered. "Not like that. Not your scientist looks. The OTHER ones." 

Darien turned her then, and since her body felt like some new form of Claire-flavored Jello, she didn't fight. When he moved closer, so that they were now pressed front-to-front, she found herself hypnotized by his eyes again, her breathing ragged. She didn't know whether to feel elated or insulted that Darien's face still hadn't lost its steady calm. 

"But did you know that I watch you, too?" he asked her, hemming her in on both sides by planting his hands on her dresser. 

Claire leaned back a little, trying to distance herself from him, but he moved closer, and she had nowhere else to go. "What do you mean?" she asked. 

He half-shrugged, a movement reminiscent of the Darien she knew from the daylight. "You're the smart one here, doc," he told her, tilting his head. "I'm sure you can figure it out." 

Eyes on her back. Watching her walk; following the sway of her hips. Appreciating the smooth curve of her calves, the slim hourglass of her waist. Memorizing... 

"How long?" she asked. 

"Long enough." 

"Why now?" 

"Why not?" 

"This is all...very disorienting." Her brows pursed in consternation as she tried to muddle through her feelings, which had felt so steadfast earlier, and now, didn't seem very clear at all. 

"Try this for a focal point," Darien told her, before leaning in to press a kiss to her throat. 

She stopped breathing. Again. 

His lips were warm, soft. They found the pulse that fluttered near her jaw, and he let his kiss linger there until he could feel it throb faster. He moved on, exploring her jaw, the sensitive flesh of her ear, across her cheek, until he touched her lips. 

"Now would be a good time to breathe, Keep," he whispered, grinning. 

She did, exhaling quickly and inhaling just as fast. Automatically Claire regretted it, as she breathed in his scent, which surrounded her in a warm, comforting blanket, made tangible by the presence of his taut body against her own. 

"Oh, Hell," she murmured. 

He raised an eyebrow, that smile never leaving his face. "Is that a go ahead?" he asked. 

This time when she met his eyes, there was no hesitation. "If you stop now, I'm not quite sure I'd survive," she told him, eyes sparkling. "So I believe the answer is yes." 

Darien's face softened, though the smile remained, and this time when he leaned forward, he found her lips as though by memory. 

Claire didn't fight when he loosened the ill-tied belt of her robe and let it slip to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and told propriety to take the first train headed west, because right now, she was too busy being well and truly kissed by the most handsome man she'd ever met to listen to its shrill whistle. 

Thank God it was only a few steps to the bed. She could never have made it further. 

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When Darien awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was that his bed was much softer than he remembered. Normally when he woke in the morning, there was a spring digging into his back, or an unexplained lump under his hip. Today, there was nothing. The bed simply seemed to cradle him, and it took him a long time to open his eyes, it was so comfortable. The next thing he noticed was that his apartment smelled a hell of a lot better than usual. He wasn't much of a cook, and the few things he did whip up usually turned out horrible or burned, though more likely than not, it was both. But there was no hint of charred beef or rotten tuna fish in the air this morning. In fact, it smelled fresh and pleasant, like flowers. He smiled. 

The last thing he noticed was the warm figure curled up beside him. This made him pause and think. _Did I get totally smashed last night?_ he asked himself, though he was pretty sure he hadn't. At least, he didn't REMEMBER getting drunk... 

Of course, that was the point of a drunk blackout. You didn't remember it happening. 

Still, he considered himself an honorable kind of guy. One night stands were just not his thing. So whoever this warm person was....this small, warm person...this small, FUZZY, warm person... 

"What the hell?" he muttered, opening one eye and wincing against the bright sunlight. 

When his vision cleared, he turned his attention to the warm body next to him, and found himself with a faceful of doggie tongue. 

"Ach! Stop! Pavlov, stop!" Darien spluttered, sitting up quickly as he fended off the furry canine, which seemed intent on licking every inch of his face before he had a chance to scurry away. 

Wait a minute.... 

Pavlov? 

"Aw, crap," he muttered. 

Pushing the dog away, not unkindly, Darien finally took the oppurtunity to look around the room. Yep, definitely the Keeper's place. He remembered every detail-- the sofa, the mirror, the bright, effusive light. The dog. Everything. All that was missing was... 

The bathroom door opened, and Claire emerged. She was wearing a pale blue satin bath robe, and nothing else. He'd been around enough women to realize THAT. 

"Good morning," she said cheerily. "Sleep well?" 

"I...uh....I don't know. Did I?" 

Claire shrugged as she crossed to her dresser and picked up an ornate silver hairbrush. It was a nice thing-- his robber mentality made a mental note of its price on the street before he quickly banished the thought. "I have no complaints," she told him. "Thankfully, you don't snore." 

"Well, that's nice." 

"Yes, it is." 

"Um, Claire?" 

"Mm?" 

Darien swallowed. "What the hell am I doing here?" 

She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a shy grin. "You're an intelligent man, Darien," she said, her accent smoothing out the harsh vowels of his name. "I'm sure you can figure it out." 

Great. Well, that was no help. Only way to see... He lifted the blankets which still covered him, looked down his body... 

"Aw, CRAP," he muttered again. 

He heard the Keeper giggle, and looked up quickly. "What?" he asked. 

Claire was smiling at him. "I've never gotten that reaction before," she told him. "It was oddly refreshing." 

Darien blushed deep red, and tried to sink down into the bed. "How the hell did I get here?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation in a less embarassing direction. 

Claire shrugged, and turned to lean back against the dresser. "It would appear your pineal gland took you on a little adventure," she told him, eyes dancing. 

Darien swallowed again, though his throat was dry. "So you and I...?" he asked, unable to put it into words. 

She nodded. 

"Last night?" 

"Yes." 

"Together?" 

"That is the generally accepted method, yes." 

He fell back against the pillows, covering his eyes with his arm and groaning. "Aw, crap." 

When he looked up again, she was still watching him. There was no fear or embarassment in her face-- she was just contemplating him. It felt like...like almost... she was memorizing him. 

"You couldn't have said, 'No, Darien. You're being controlled by your libido. Please go home and take a long, cold shower?'" he asked. 

Claire shrugged, and fingered the hairbrush. "I tried," she told him. "But you're very stubborn, and quite persuasive when you want to be." She chuckled, and looked up again. "But then, you knew that already." 

There was something about her easy-going, non-accusatory manner that set Darien at ease. At least she wasn't glaring at him and ordering him out the door. 

"So," he asked, drawing out the question, "was I any good?" 

She cocked an eyebrow, and that devilish grin had returned. "I'm sure you'd love to know," she answered. "But a lady never speaks of such things." 

There was an invitation there. It was plain as day. He could spend his time cursing the fact that his damned pineal gland wiped his memory every morning, or he could go about making new memories to replace the old. He decided to go with door number two. 

"Never SPEAKS, huh?" he asked, sitting up straighter. 

She stood up and took a small step towards the bed. "Certainly not," she replied, smiling. 

"Would a lady be completely adverse to a little demonstration?" 

She took another step. "She could be persuaded." 

Darien could feel his old, self-assured attitude reasserting itself, and he nodded to the hairbrush in her hand. "Are you planning on doing anything with that?" he asked. 

Claire glanced down at the hairbrush, and she studied it thoughtfully. 

"Actually," she said, looking up with a broad smile, "no. No I'm not. I don't think I need it anymore." 

He didn't quite understand that, nor the pleased smile which accompanied the statement, but it was still the answer he'd been hoping for. "So you think you could make some time for a brief dramatization of last night's events?" he asked. 

Claire set the brush back on her dresser and crossed the space between her and the bed, kneeling on the mattress beside him. "That doesn't sound like such a terrible idea," she answered, smoothing her hands up over his bare chest as she lowered herself over him. "Though if last night means anything, it won't be particularly brief." 

He raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask her to clarify, she was kissing him, and anything resembling a question flew his mind, until all he could feel was her. 

**The End**


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